


White Mutiny

by HermitLibrary_Archivist



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: M/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-21 13:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4831136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermitLibrary_Archivist/pseuds/HermitLibrary_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By Vanessa Mullen.</p><p>A dark story of manipulation and control. Blake needs Avon's loyalty, but how can he obtain it? What will happen if he abuses that loyalty?</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Mutiny

**Author's Note:**

> Previously published in 'Forbidden Star Two'.
> 
> Note from Judith and Aralias, the archivists: This story was originally archived at [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hermit_Library), which was closed due to maintenance costs and lack of time. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2015. We posted announcements about the move and emailed authors as we imported, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hermitlibrary/profile). 
> 
> This work has been backdated to 26th of May 2008, which is the last date the Hermit.org archive was updated, not the date this fic was written. In some cases, fics can be dated more precisely by searching for the zine they were originally published in on [Fanlore](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Main_Page).
> 
>  
> 
> **Original Author's Note: For Bryn Lantry who gave me the beginning, and M.Fae Glasgow who helped me work out where it was going to end.**

_"No," Avon said flatly._

_Something inside Blake snapped. He wrestled Avon backwards onto the bed and pinned him with a firm grip on each wrist. "Not a chance," he said roughly, "you've been asking for this all week, and now you're going to get it." His body screamed at him, demanding he take the risk, needing to venture where only imagination had gone._

_Avon glared up at him, eyes sultry and dark, the harsh sound of his breathing suddenly audible over the faint sussurusation of the air circulation._

_"Do this, and you won't live to regret it."_

_The memory of Orac's information was suddenly all too vivid. Looking into those eyes, seeing the cold-blooded passion there, Blake believed. Avon could do it - because Avon had killed before. Forget the heat of Avon's body under him. Forget the lure of Avon's lips and the way their slight parting virtually demanded a kiss. Forget the fact that he could feel Avon's cock swelling and pressing against his own. Avon was refusing him, and Avon was deadly serious._

_"Why?"_

_"You don't command here. Even you cannot claim that the safety of the ship will be compromised if you can't screw me."_

_So that was it: Avon's revenge. He knew the precise moment that the understanding registered in his face, because Avon smiled. Soft, seductive, charming - and triumphant._

      

 

      It was all Orac's fault of course. Practically the first thing Blake had done when the supercomputer fell into his hands was to interrogate it about the backgrounds of his crew. He supposed he'd had a vague hope that their convictions might turn out to be invalid. Much though he valued their aid and friendship, he lived under the constant reminder that they were criminals, the sort of people who would be no more welcome in the world he was seeking to create then in the one he was attempting to destroy. Cally of course was a genuine revolutionary like himself. Jenna? Well, it was moderately easy to argue that she merely sought to overcome the restraints of an unfair economic system. Yet he was acutely aware that even under an ideal system of government, there would still be the necessity for some trade restrictions. Some key industries would need protection from outside competition, some substances would be illegal, and so the list grew. Vila was a thief and would always be a thief; his claim that he was immune to adjustment therapy was no empty boast. Blake envied him whatever quirk it was that allowed his brain to survive repeated reprogramming attempts. Gan? Well, the death of his wife was on record, even though it was shown as being due to an accident in the rapid transit system, but it was possible the record could have been falsified to ensure Gan's conviction. Even Orac admitted that it could not tell if data had been entered into a system correctly in the first place. But it was Avon who had given Blake the greatest surprise. He'd expected embezzlement, and he'd found it. What he'd also found, tagged almost as an afterthought on the end of the list of charges, was murder: the shooting of a black-market dealer in stolen and forged documents. There was more too, but most of the records of Avon's arrest and trial were locked up in a file codenamed Bartolomew in a format that even Orac had so far been unable to decode. What had Avon done that was so drastic that it required the highest possible security classification?

      Damn it all, he needed to be able to rely on Avon, but how could he trust a man who had no moral qualms about stealing and who could kill in cold blood? It was a problem without any solution. He even liked Avon, there was no doubt that a friendship of sorts had grown between them, but how could he continue, knowing what he did. What had Avon _done_? Had he been a government agent who had reneged on his own people? It was impossible to tell. Blake banged his fist on Orac's casing in frustration.

      "I would advice you to be more careful," Orac said in the prissy tones that Blake had already come to associate with it. "While my structure is necessarily robust, there is a distinct possibility that you may cause damage."

      "With the kind of information you're giving me, I'm sorely tempted. Why not tell me something useful like how I can trust Avon not to steal  _Liberator_  from under me?"

      "I fail to see why you are worried by such a trivial problem."

      "It isn't trivial to me," Blake said through gritted teeth.

      Orac, with typical computer reticence, said nothing. With a sharp exhalation of breath, Blake faced it again. "Orac," he demanded, "how can I be certain of Avon's loyalty?"

      "Make him give you his word, of course."

      "Of course?"

      "Do I really need to make myself more explicit? Avon's psych profile is very clear in the matter: where matters of morality are concerned, he does not consider himself bound by the mores of society. However, his own personal code of honour is strict. If he gives his word, he will keep it."

      "Thank you, Orac." Blake snatched the key out and left.

      It was all very well for Orac to suggest such a thing, far harder for himself to implement it. He could just imagine himself bearding Avon in his lair, "Excuse me, Avon, would you mind giving me your word that you won't try and take over  _Liberator_?" He'd be laughed out of court.

      

      

Deep in thought, Blake traversed the alien corridors. The strangeness of the ship had become familiar to him now, yet Avon, from his own home planet, remained as incomprehensible as ever. He took a final turn through a honeycomb doorway where, high arched and graceful, the flight deck appeared before him. Banks of monitors swept in a wave down to the white leather couch where Avon reclined in perfect black contrast. Irritation swept through him; ignoring Jenna and Vila, Blake pressed angrily forward to the elegantly raised eyebrow awaiting him.

      "What's the hurry?" Avon inquired lazily. "Who died?"

      Why did Avon always try to irritate him before they'd even started a conversation? "You're supposed to be repairing the secondary comm links."

      "Ah, now I know who it was." Avon paused for effect, twirling a laser probe between his fingers in a twisting display of casual competence.

      "Who? What?"

      "Your last slave," he explained. "Died of overwork."

      Someone sniggered.

      Blake glared upwards, only to see Vila grin cheekily at him.

      Avon said, "I came off duty half an hour ago." The laser probe whirled suggestively. "Unless, of course, you rewrote the watch schedule without telling anyone."

      Blake took an involuntary step forward. The mental image of Avon choking to death as Blake slowly strangled him was incredibly attractive. The probe in Avon's hand tilted casually, not exactly pointed at him, but certainly in his general direction. In the right hands a useful tool, in the wrong, a deadly weapon. And which were Avon's? Damn it, he'd never let Avon win a showdown before, and he certainly wasn't going to start now.

      "Those secondary comm links could be be critical. It isn't so much the links themselves, but the fact that the failure indicates a fault in the auto-repair system. Can't you see that?"

      "Oh, I can see it, Blake," Avon said softly, "and I can also see that you've decided to set yourself up as a worse dictator than Servalan."

      Vila and Jenna exchanged glances on the fringe of his peripheral vision. They were all slipping through his fingers, and it was entirely Avon's fault.

      "Are you, or are you not, going to check out those detectors?"

      "Not. I'm going to have a cup of coffee. Coming, Vila?"

      "Sure. Erm..." Vila glanced at the thunderstorm brewing in Blake's face. "Maybe not."

      "Dance to Blake's tune if you must.   _I_  am a free man."

      Avon walked across the flight deck and up the steps, every movement somehow managing to convey disdain and indifference.

      A shroud of utter silence settled on the flight deck, none daring the words that would confess to Avon's departure. If it was not acknowledged, then it could not have happened, and for it to have happened was unthinkable. For if Avon had defied Blake's authority, then any of them could; and if Blake had no authority over them, what were they doing out here in the vast empty reaches of space? If Blake was not their leader, then the dream crumbled and they were nothing more than a group of criminals on the run.

      Blake stared at the empty archway which seemed to have grown larger simply by having Avon walk through it. Its emptiness echoed the fragmentation of his dreams. Avon simply didn't care. United we stand, divided we fall - but Avon chose to face the world alone and to neither accept support nor to lend it. Freedom as Avon saw it was freedom for himself alone and the devil take the hindmost. Blake balled his fists and felt the forgotten edge of Orac's key bite into his fingers.

      And that was another thing...

      He had to follow Avon and track him down. Avon would not flee, for that would be an admission of guilt, and Avon admitted to nothing. Determination drove Blake now, that and an anger that he did not bother to conceal from himself. Avon's callous indifference could endanger them all.

      He drove his quarry to ground in the galley. Wonder of wonders, Avon had actually gone where he said he was going. Calm and unruffled, he stood in front of the dispenser, tapping in a code. Blake strode over to the machine as it disgorged Avon's drink, and slammed his fist onto the metallic top. The machine wobbled, sloshing hot coffee onto the deck. Gathering up his half empty cup, Avon glared at him.

      "So when rhetoric fails, you resort to intimidation?"

      Blake stepped closer, crowding Avon's personal space. "When reason fails, I'll resort to whatever is necessary. This crew needs you, but it needs you as a co-operative member, not as an anarchist."

      "And I thought you believed in freedom for everyone."

      "And I do." He grabbed the coffee cup from Avon's hand, and squeezed it between his fingers, the sudden crack as it broke sounding sharp and bitter. He ignored the resultant cut in his hand; that could be dealt with later. "But freedom has to be earned. Freedom is only worth the price that we are willing to pay for it, and those back on Earth do not even have the choice of whether to pay that price. We  _owe_  them Avon. We got away, but they are still behind."

      Avon snapped, "And as far as I'm concerned, they can stay behind."

      "I thought you might feel that way." Blake held up Orac's key. "Remember Orac's prediction?"

      "That  _Liberator_  will be destroyed?" Avon was cautious now.

      "If we are to stand a chance of preventing that prediction coming true, we need to check every inch of his ship for faults, to trace every minor error, to ignore nothing that could cause an accident."

      "Or we could simply avoid all Federation bases." Avon tilted his head back. "I'll check those comm links for you, Blake, but don't expect anything more."

      "On the contrary," Blake allowed the steel to surface in his voice, "I do expect more. And what is more, I am going to have more. This crew cannot survive divided, not with the problems that we are going to face. I need you fully with me, or not at all. Do you understand me, Avon? I want your word that you will obey my orders in future, or else you leave this ship. Either you become part of this crew or you go."

      

 

      So, he'd got his promise. And Avon had kept it. Oh yes, Avon had kept it, to the letter. During the whole of their fight against  _Liberator's_ builders and beyond, he hadn't disobeyed a single order; but neither had he done anything spontaneously. A 'white mutiny' Blake had once heard it called: giving somebody exactly what they asked for in such a way that they wished they'd never asked at all.

      It still rankled that Avon had worked out the geographical location of Orac's prediction and hadn't told him, but had instead simply waited until he was asked.

      Everything Bake said was tested and checked:   _Are you willing to take responsibility? You're the one giving the orders._  Avon suddenly refused to take anything upon himself.

      It had been driving Blake to distraction, but he'd still allowed himself to go too far. The memory chilled him. What had he been thinking of? They'd escaped from the Altas, but instead of bringing them relief, it had only brought more aggravation. He'd laid in a course for Earth Sector and Avon, almost inevitably, had challenged that. There'd been a dozen ways he could have handled the situation, but he'd been tired and stressed and had simply ordered Avon back to his position. Avon had frozen, stared at him, and then finally done as ordered.

      He'd used Avon's promise to humiliate him in front of the others. There was no escaping from that, and Avon hadn't forgiven him. But Avon had changed tactics. It had been subtle, so subtle that Blake wasn't even sure when he'd become consciously aware of the change. The touch of a hand on his shoulder, the lightest brush against him when Avon walked past, a glance in his direction that lasted just a fraction too long. He'd taken it for nothing more than casual interest, felt no surprise that Avon wasn't taking it any further. Then it had become worse. He knew, by what strange chemistry or pheromone he could not tell, but he knew Avon wanted him, and that knowledge was potent and erotic. When Avon glanced his way, Blake's eyes made covert response, seeking out the planes and hollows of Avon's body. When Avon stood, head casually tilted, Blake's lips twitched, longing to bury themselves in that white neck. When Avon walked past him, the very motion of his hips was as good as an engraved invitation to buggery. Blake watched, knowing full well that his own reaction had to be visible to Avon, knew too that Avon was watching him in turn, feeding off Blake's desires to fuel his own.

      They were performers in a carefully choreographed dance of lust and seduction, but as to who was seducing whom, he was no longer sure. Avon spoke no word to him, requested no assignation - it was Blake's choice, to make the move, or to ignore it. Joining with Avon would be playing with dry tinder, a deadly game that could ignite and burn out of control like a forest fire. Blake allowed himself no illusions there. Avon hid his passions under a web of humour and cynicism, a veiling of deeper, darker things within. To pluck away the strands was enticing, to become tangled within them was not.

      He sought Jenna's bed instead.

      She smiled and welcomed him, and made him happy. But after she had fallen asleep, Blake dreamed of Avon and saw dark eyes laughing at him from under heavy lashes.

      The next morning was worse. A knowing, raised eyebrow, a wolfish smile for Jenna, and a mocking "Sleep well?" whispered in his ear as Avon lent over to examine a chart he was working on. He could feel the cage of Avon's arms on either side of his body, Avon's breath warm on his neck and the subtle smell of sex. It was there, being dangled before him: the lure. Blake ignored it. He could guess Avon's price, and he wasn't prepared to pay it. His body played him traitor and he refused to listen to it, ignored the hairs prickling along his arms and the tension in every muscle that screamed at him to seize Avon and subdue him.

      Voice carefully under control, he ordered Avon to check the main drive connections, but found only minor relief when Avon left. Conversation flowed around Blake without him taking it in, and he found himself inventing endless excuses that would allow him to inspect the drive chamber. Those too, he suppressed, but when after the evening meal, he needed to consult Orac and found it gone, Blake knew there was only one place where it would be - Avon was off duty.

 

      

      Avon's cabin was dim, shadows lurked in the corners, suggesting unseen demons awaiting the orders of their lord and master. Incense hung faintly in the air, the scent of ancient temples and forgotten deities. A single light picked out Avon working at his desk, black silk shirt clinging loosely to his shoulders, falling in a gentle curve down his body. Orac rested on the desk, lights chasing in an eternal spiral like a caged animal seeking escape.

      Without looking around at Blake, Avon reached out and removed Orac's key, the lights dying with Orac's whine.

      Silence reigned.

      Blake felt the dryness of his lips. "I need..."

      Now Avon turned to look at him, eyes lightly mocking. He rose to his feet and moved with cat-like grace towards Blake. His hand smoothed his shirt, lingering just an instant too long on a nipple. Blake could see it indenting the fabric, wanted urgently to take it, bite it, make Avon cry out with the pleasure or pain if it.

      "You need?" Avon prompted gently.

      "Orac," he tried to say, but the word would not come. "You," he cursed, and reached out to take what he wanted.

      "No."

      

* * * * *

      

      So it was revenge. He dug his nails into the skin of Avon's wrists, not caring if he left a mark. "You bastard," he enunciated slowly. "You had no intention of offering a deal."

      "Would you have accepted it if I had?"

      Blake considered that for a bare moment. "No."

      "Precisely." Avon's voice was laced with sarcasm. "Besides, I don't consider myself to be a negotiable item."

      "I see."

      "Do you, Blake?" The tip of Avon's tongue flicked out lazily and traced the outline of his lips, the moisture giving them a faint gloss.

      Blake's control evaporated. He grabbed Avon's head and forced a kiss on him, biting hard. Avon arched abruptly against him, body blindly seeking its partner. Blake released him and stared into the expressionless eyes. There was a darkness there, and it pulled at him.

      "So that's the way it is," he said softly, menace coating his words. "Oh, don't worry, Avon, I won't force you. Before I've finished, you're going to be begging me to take you."

      "Really?"

      It wasn't necessary to answer. He grabbed Avon's shirt at the collar and jerked sharply downwards; the ripping sound curiously satisfying. Avon watched him, sudden uncertainty clouding the confidence in his eyes. He twisted, trying to escape, but Blake seized a wrist and used his weight to force Avon down, then tied the torn strip of shirt around the wrist.

      Avon's struggles intensified. Like a trapped panther, he fought tooth and nail, forcing Blake to use every ounce of strength to subdue him. The sense of triumph as flipped Avon on his stomach and forced the other wrist behind his back was exhilarating. Avon bucked against him, and Blake twisted the arm upwards.

      Avon caught his breath sharply.

      "I'm going to tie them whether you like it or not. If you fight, it'll only hurt more."

      He gave Avon a few moments to ponder on that, then forced the wrists together, meeting only token resistance as he did so. Task completed, Blake sat astride his prize and stared down at the curve of Avon's body. His hands lay bound in the small of his back; short fingered with broad tips, they excited Blake's imagination. He could think of things he wanted those hands to do, things that would drive him wild with desire; but right now, they were the hand of a prisoner, his to do with as he willed.

      Blake contemplated that for a moment, ran a testing finger across Avon's palm, watched the slight tremor that Avon failed to control. In another time or place, he might have taken a finger, sucked it, swirled his tongue around the tip and followed the path of gentle seduction. But this was here, and now, and Avon. Gentle seduction was not what he wanted at all. He slid a hand under Avon and felt the betraying hardness of cock through the warm texture of the tight leather trousers. He leant his weight heavily on Avon's back and was rewarded by the swell against his hand. Avon moaned deep in the back of his throat and scrabbled at Blake's chest with his fingers.

      "Like that?"

      "Blake, you're getting tedious."

      "Is that so?"

      Avon had a knack for being irritating. Blake had often wondered whether it was accidental or deliberately intended. Right now, he had no doubts left at all. He manhandled his prisoner onto his back in spite of vigorous resistance and was rewarded by the sight of Avon, eyes black and venomous, glaring up at him. Blake took a moment to admire the view left by the ripped shirt, ran a hand over the plane of Avon's chest, deliberately tweaking a nipple in passing, before turning his attention to his main target. Hands fumbling in spite of himself, he unfastened Avon's trousers, sliding a hand within. Through the thin fabric of the underpants, he could feel the swollen penis, enfold his hand around it, and feel how it betrayed Avon with its instant leap in his hand.

      He glanced at Avon's face, but the eyes were closed, giving nothing away; the rigid tension in his body spoke far more eloquently. Blake gripped the waistband of the trousers in both hands and yanked hard. Avon's response was instant. He bucked his knees up and managed to dislodge Blake from where he was sitting. Blake fell back, and Avon struggled to his feet to stand on the floor. He reminded Blake of nothing so much as a hissing, spitting cat. Dishevelled, trousers hanging open, he looked faintly ridiculous; Blake laughed out loud.

      "Do you know what you look like?"

      "And you're so perfect yourself?"

      He took a careful step towards Avon. "That's easily remedied." He unbuckled his belt and let the waistcoat fall off his shoulders to the floor. His shirt was already hanging out; he undid the buttons with one hand, keeping the belt hanging easy in the other in case Avon made a break for it. Right arm first, then the left, the shirt falling in a billowing cloud to the floor.

      Casually, Blake unfastened his trousers, while still observing his prey. At almost the exact moment he'd anticipated, Avon leapt at him, launching out with his feet. Lack of balance caught him out - he fell clumsily to the floor, even as Blake, smiling, stepped back from the attack.

      "Careless," he commented, and pounced on Avon, using his bulk to pin the slighter man to the floor.

      Avon's skin was hot against his own, his breathing quick and shallow. No frightened virgin here; Avon had played this game before. His cock pressed against Blake's, and Blake was of a mind to touch it. But first, he wanted more control. He knelt over Avon and slipped his belt between the ties securing Avon's wrists and before Avon had realised his intent, looped the belt around a leg of the desk and pulled it tight. Disdainful now, Blake rose to his feet to survey his success. Imprisoned, Avon lay quiescent on his side, apart from his hands which sought to discover just how firmly they were held.

      "Ready for me yet?" Blake inquired. "Ready for my cock up your arse?"

      Avon's attention flicked over him and dismissed him as insignificant. Blake clenched a fist abruptly, then relaxed it. He had the advantage here. Black and white - Avon's body teased at him. Dark hair, white skin. Black trousers, white arse. It was suddenly terribly important to expose Avon totally, to make every inch of him vulnerable to Blake's possession. His tongue flicked over dry lips. Then Blake smiled.

      Avoiding the danger of Avon's feet, he reached down and grabbed inside the open front of Avon's trousers. The handful of genitals was pure pleasure to touch, warm and silky. He cupped his hand around the balls, rolled them gently, and felt the twitch of Avon's cock, saw the shiver that he couldn't control. Now, he slid his other hand down Avon's back, into the crease of his arse and almost to the entrance to his body. Avon tensed.

      "Do you know what I'm going to do?" Blake asked conversationally. "I'm going to take your shoes and trousers off, and them I'm going to fuck you into the floor."

      "No."

      Blake squeezed Avon's testicles gently and reached for a shoe with his other hand. Predictably, Avon kicked out. Blake jerked hard at his testicles and Avon gasped at the sudden pain. Gentle then, Blake stroked him, letting the caress soothe away the pain: a slow, lingering stroke that passed through wiry black hair and up the smoothness of the shaft. Delicately, he touched here and there, a clinician investigating what brought a response. Then, without warning, he gripped firmly once more.

      "Naked. Avon."

      There was no answer, but then he hadn't expected any. This time, however, when he reached to remove the shoes and socks, there was no resistance, the captive in one hand ensuring his freedom to do as he wished with the other. One shoe followed the other, flying in a high arc into the darkened recesses of the room, followed moments later by balled up socks that refused to fly straight and fell unravelled to the floor. Avon's head turned to watch them as they fell, anarchic black butterflies that fluttered and died.

      "You know what comes next." Blake's voice was throaty and low.

      "I know." Calm, but still not resigned.

      Once more he took Avon's cock, seduced it, made gentle sucking love to it, teased his tongue under the rim and circled it slowly as Avon's breathing became deeper and his hips began to move of their own accord. Objective achieved, Blake dipped his tongue into the slit at the tip and then let go. Slowly, he removed Avon's trousers and underpants, peeling them off as carefully as he would have stripped insulation from a live wire. Avon's skin was that of a man who'd spent a long time in space. The even pale colour of a man who spent too little time under a planet's sun, and chose to take vitamin D supplements rather than spend much time under ultra-violet lights. It felt right. In the dim shadows cast by the desk lamp, any colours of the real world would have been wrong. This world of shadow was Avon's domain - only black and white could exist. Almost tenderly, Blake ripped away the remainder of Avon's shirt, the silk tearing smoothly until he hit the seam of a cuff. Suddenly furious at being baulked, he rent the fabric savagely, the sudden snap a sop to his needs.

      "That used to be a good shirt," Avon remarked. But there was a catch to his voice that hadn't been there before.

      Blake stared down at him, drinking in the clean lines of Avon's body, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath, the way his cock jutted forward so proudly. There was an incredible eroticism in the fact that Avon couldn't touch himself, that he was dependent on Blake for whatever sexual satisfaction Blake chose to give him.

      Blake's own cock demanded attention. He shed the remainder of his clothes, and stood astride over Avon, letting Avon watch as he played with himself, cradling his balls and pulling hard on the length of his cock. He toyed with the idea of letting himself come that way, jerking himself off and watching his seed splash all over Avon. It was tempting, but he wanted more. He wanted Avon's acknowledgement, wanted Avon crying out his name in helpless submission.

      He stroked a foot lightly along Avon's flank. "Where?" he demanded.

      "Where what?"

      "You know what I want. I could take you raw, but that wouldn't be very comfortable for either of us." He stared into Avon's eyes until Avon looked away.

      "In the shower: shelf just inside the door."

      Pale gold, filled with some viscous liquid, the bottle sat in the palm of Blake's hand. He unscrewed the top and sniffed cautiously. Some smell that he wasn't familiar with, but it felt right for Avon: strange and exotic, almost dangerous. He could sense Avon waiting for him as he turned the bottle over in his hand. There was no label, nothing to indicate what the contents were. He poured a single drop onto the back of his hand and felt it lie there, cool and round, until the drop dispersed and the smell rose to meet him, heady and embracing.

      A thousand miles away, or only a few metres, it all depended on how you looked at it; Avon lay on the floor, back turned towards him. Blake stepped across the gulf and unfastened his belt. Before Avon could react to that, Blake gripped his bound wrists firmly.

      "On the bed. Face down." He twisted an arm upwards to emphasise the point.

      Avon stumbled to his feet and allowed Blake to steer him onto the bed where he lay, passive and silent. Was he trying to detach himself from events? That wasn't what Blake wanted at all. He nudged Avon's thighs apart and kneeling between them, he poured a few drops of oil into the small of Avon's back. Slowly and firmly, he massaged it into the skin, spreading it with his fingers and letting his thumbs knead small circles above Avon's buttocks. Avon shifted restlessly under him and Blake smiled. A slick hand slid suddenly and shockingly downwards to invade the cleft between the arse cheeks and Avon cried out. Thighs squeezed as he tried to deny Blake entrance. Blake slid a finger in as his other hand slipped under Avon and took hold of him there, to remind him of both the pleasure and the pain. Avon was tight inside, warm and clinging against his finger. Blake rotated the finger gently and added a second, feeling the slight involuntary move Avon made against him. A third digit. He pressed inwards as far as he could go, stretching Avon and preparing him. As he touched a particularly sensitive spot, Avon moaned faintly.

      That was his cue. Blake withdrew totally, abandoning Avon to nothingness. He placed his hands on Avon's hips and waited. The sound of their breathing hung heavy in the air. The smell of sweat mingled with the notes of the oil. Avon moved beneath him, a rhythmic rocking, trying to bring himself off against the sheets. Blake gripped his hips harder and pulled them upwards, denying him even that release.

      "If you want it, you have to take it from me."

      "I don't..." The words trailed away as Blake stoked the fire even further by reaching under Avon and lightly stroking a nipple.

      "I..."

      He positioned his cockhead at the entrance to Avon's body; Avon's responsive shudder almost driving him over the edge.

      "Ask for it, Avon," he growled. "Beg me."

      He'd never seen a more beautiful sight than Avon, arse in the air, needing him so desperately. He burned with the heat of it, wanting only Avon's submission to make the moment complete.

      "Blake..."

      Almost there. He ran the tip of a finger around the rim of Avon's cock, the touch so light as to tantalise but give no hint of relief.

      Avon gave a great gasping sigh. "Do it, Blake," he whispered. "Just do it."

      Blake rammed himself home, thrusting into Avon as though nothing else existed for either of them. The world contracted to a single point of pleasure, of heat and tightness, of Avon's small cries, of his own intensity. Every movement pushed him closer to the threshold. Avon was pushing back hard against him now, as desperate for completion as Blake. From somewhere, Blake found the strength of mind to grasp Avon's cock and complete the circle. Himself thrusting into A von, Avon thrusting into his hand.

      Avon screamed loudly and came, and the sound brought Blake with it, coming in pulse after pulse to spill himself inside Avon's body.

      

 

      Silence reigned. Finally, Avon shrugged Blake's weight off and sat up. "It's so nice," he said softly, over his shoulder, "to meet a man who believes in the rights of the individual."

      Blake stared at him, uncomprehending.

      " _If_  you don't mind," Avon said pointedly and held up his bound hands behind his back.

      Blake got up, feeling oddly at a disadvantage and rummaged around Avon's desk. A laser probe lay blunt on top of a circuit board. He picked it up, recalling Avon's habit of playing with it; it seemed to lack something without Avon's animation, but it was a tool and would serve his purpose. At the lowest setting it sliced easily through Avon's bindings; Avon eased his wrists and stretched each individual finger, the gesture smooth and flowing.

      "Did I hurt you?"

      Avon acknowledged him with a brief glance. "No."

      After the high of orgasm, Blake found his current situation incredibly depressing. His anger and desire had drained, leaving no new emotion to replace them. His clothes lay on the floor in a tumbled heap and he reached out for a shirt. "I'd best be going."

      "I don't think so."

      The tone of Avon's voice dragged his attention around. Avon reclined on the bed, wearing confidence like a cloak. The marks of Blake's passion were denied, sloughed off as a snake abandons a dead skin. The serenity of the Buddha allied with the patience of a hunting cat.

      "When you return to Earth -" he said with apparent irrelevance.

      "If," Blake interrupted.

      Avon waved an airy hand. "Supposing for the moment that your ill-starred crusade succeeds. What form will your government take?"

      The question caught him by surprise. "What's that to do with anything?"

      "Answer the question, Blake."

      "I may not even be in the government."

      The cat smiled. A feral grin. "Oh, you will be, Blake. Do you really think you could let anyone else be in control?"

      "It depends on who the best man for the job is."

      Avon pounced. "But the best man in your opinion will always be you. Power. That's what you're after. The Federation broke you, they destroyed you utterly, and the only way you will ever feel safe again is if you have total control."

      "That's not true!"

      "Then why are you here?" Blake moved back involuntarily at the sudden venom in Avon's eyes. "It isn't sex you wanted, it's power. You need it as much as you need to breathe. You control all our lives and justify it with sanctimonious hypocrisy.

      "I don't-"

      "Oh, but you do."

      And he did. He had no defence against the charge. He took Jenna's affection, Gan's loyalty and Cally's revolutionary fervour and used them all to his own ends. But it wasn't hypocrisy. It was necessity. How else could he lead this group of criminals and misfits to anything worthwhile? If he exhorted Vila and used Avon's promise to bind him, it didn't mean that he was like the leaders of the Federation, seeking power for its own sake. It didn't.

      "It isn't like that," he protested.

      Avon said nothing, merely looked Blake in the eyes and slowly twisted a strip of his torn shirt around his wrist.

      "Bastard!"

      "Considering my mother's proclivities, I concede the possibility." Smooth, unruffled, and waiting.

      He had no options left, no corner to hide in. He could see himself through his own eyes, and he hated what he saw. The line was so thin, from fighting the Federation to becoming the Federation. Every gain was a retrograde step. Every lever he exerted had the potential to destroy the very thing he fought for.

      Avon had trapped him all too well, allowed him to take everything he wanted until he could no longer accept himself as the man who could enjoy that power and control. If he were to live with himself again, there was only one avenue of escape left.

      "Take back your damn promise."

      "Thank you." Courtesy itself. Avon might have been thanking an ambassador's wife for a dance at an embassy ball. Then his voice changed. "Now get out of my room."

      Blake dressed hurriedly, avoiding Avon's eyes. But as he palmed the door control, something inside of him broke free for an instant.

      "Avon, did you enjoy what we did?"

      Creamless coffee eyes smiled cynically back at him. "What do you think?"

 


End file.
